


Unique

by Aris



Series: Marvel One Shots [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Everyone in Asgard is a loser, Gen, Insecurity, Loki Angst, Loki Feels, Loki Needs a Hug, Oblivious Thor, Self-Hatred, Teasing, Tony Stark Has A Heart, big scary mythical creatures acting like kicked puppies, the entire of Asgard is oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Asgard continues as usual, my unsightly form is a mere memory."</p><p>The one where Loki uses his magic to fit in on Asgard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unique

Loki is fourteen years old when he realises he’s not like anyone else in Asgard.

He’d been fighting with his brother and his brothers friends (not his friends, as they always tell him) and, perhaps unwisely, he’d used magic to defend himself from a particularly crushing blow of Fandral’s. If he hadn't of conjured the thin shield the hulking sword would have swept right through his arm, by the looks of its trajectory, and detached the entire limb from its owner. Loki, even at fourteen, had not been keen on the healing rooms and their patronising inhabitants; all kind smiles and soft touches and a thrumming dislike for the slim prince that he'd only just detected hiding under their misleading words of comfort. He liked the idea of keeping his arm and avoiding the healers but that, apparently, was not honourable.

He had sat, sulky–with his metaphorical tail between his legs, after their instructor’s harsh words and Thor’s friends even harsher ones–and gazed out at the training field and its many busy occupants. A sea of blonde and light brown hair greeted his green eyes, muscled arms and harsh cries echoed across the space, the heavy clangs of weapons upon shield and sword sprung towards him as if mocking. He’d never been good with weapons. _‘You just need to build some muscle’_ his instructor had always said, fierce and snarling, before sending Loki in for some particularly difficult training involving heavier instruments than appropriate. Every time Loki would try and fight with these ungainly weapons and try to make his father–if not then him then his instructor, at least–proud; but his muscles would not form and the weight of the weapons slowed his movements to sluggish hit and misses, thus causing the distaste in which he visited the healing rooms, the embarrassing regularity.

Loki was weak. Pale, the Asgardian sun merely reflecting from his skin, dark haired, green-eyed and in the habit of practicing magic rather than swinging about an ungraceful piece of tortured metal. Unique, his mother called him–a freak, the other children did. Despite his love for his mother, Loki tended to favour the latter opinion, as it seemed the one with the most credibility. Unique wouldn’t explain the taunting and the glaring, and how his father’s eyes always skipped over his thin figure when addressing the princes; unique didn’t cut the carefully blind eyes of the guards when Sif got a little too ‘playful’ when ‘nudging’ Loki’s shoulder in a ‘friendly manner’. No, unique was a kinder word for freak, outcast - Loki.

Looking back down, Loki had held a piece of his dark hair in between his nimble fingers, glaring at it’s daring existence. Another reason to laugh at him–that’s all it was. Another doubt to be threaded into Asgardian minds that he was of Asgard at all. He frowned, and with a twist of his fingers, turned the strand a white-gold blonde. He stared. This was the colour of Sif’s tumbling mane - a colour adored and fawned, a generous compliment to the maiden.

It didn’t take much to turn all his hair that shimmering, glorious shade, and Loki pretended it was a spell gone wrong, an enchantment he could not undo while the others stared and his mother fretted. _‘I don’t mind’_ he had said. _‘Really, it’s fine,’_ and he had dismissed the sorcerers that approached him, as well as the timid idea of dyeing it using dark berries from the woods beyond the city grounds. Secretly, the young trickster was glad of how easier he could blend in, and of how the others could no longer mock him for his unusual hair.

He was sixteen when Thor asked to accompany him on a quest, all pleading words and _‘Brother, we need your magic’_ (though, of course, Thor would never say that in front of his friends, lest he become a subject to tease) and kicked-puppy eyes which were really not so becoming of the to-be King. He agreed with small trepidation and when asked by a narrow-eyed Fandral, claimed he had wanted to venture with them–that he had asked Thor and Thor, ever the doting brother, had agreed to bring his _poor, isolated_ brother along. He’d said it all with a snarl and the warrior quickly left the subject alone, years of knowing Loki’s sharp tongue causing him to avoid further malice from the slight prince.

They traversed a hot desert, in search of the forest that lay beyond, and Loki used his magic to draw water carefully from cacti and other twisted, dry plants that made refuge in the dips of ever-moving sand banks. It was on the third day, when he was asked to summon a deer for them to eat (they had said nothing of the deer already being dead, and Loki drew some amusement from their scrambling movements) that he noticed the darkening of the other warriors skin. Thor’s usually golden skin had obtained a richer glow, and Loki stood, perplexed as he examined the changes in the others’ skin compared to the sickly pallor of his own, which had not changed since their departure.

Strange.

Once the deer had been caught and killed, it was served to the warriors. Loki noted the unduly small piece he was given with disinterested eyes, despite the fact he had conjured the animal, and observed as all ate ravenously the meat he had brought; bronze fingers glistening with greece and white teeth flashing as they laughed and shared stories of similar travels to equally lifeless plains. Loki once more looked down at his own pale hand, examining his slender fingers and the skin that stretched tightly over them, highlighting bone and terribly clear, pulsing veins. Repulsive. Distaste pulled at his lips and he glanced around to the surrounding warriors, for once thankful their little circle excluded him from their sights.

He murmured a small enchantment–unnecessary–but it helped him to focus, and watched as a light, tanned pigmentation over took his outstretched hand, colour seeping into the hollows cast by prominent bone. Interesting. Though it was light, it was painfully different to his normal sickening shade, noticeable when Loki stripped one finger of the cover and held it against his wrist. He curled his hand into a fist, fighting the urge to dig his nails into his palms as he looked back to the warriors gathered near the fire they had built to ward off the unnatural cold of a desert night.

He wished to be one of them.

When he’s twenty Fenrir breaks his nose when Loki first tries to take him away.

Fenrir has grown too big for the castle grounds–too big for anywhere in the city–and his insistent howls can be heard throughout the realm, much to the realm’s annoyance. He is cooped in an over-large courtyard which tributaries to the training grounds, and of late Fenrir has been batting at nearby warriors with his generously sized paws; the latest of his hits broke an arm and a leg of a very proud warrior who had no issue taking his complaints to Odin, thus bringing the King's 'just' punishment to the over-large wolf.

Fenrir was to be bound on an island, alone, where he could do no harm. He had inherited Loki’s sly ways, and in avoiding Loki’s binding spells with his own stunted magic, had succeeded in whacking Loki around the face with an enthusiastic tail maneuver meant to deflect Loki’s spell.

Which is how Loki had ended up in the healing rooms once more, carefully using his magic to make it seem like the scar left by the torn tissue would not heal, and that is was due to Fenrir’s ‘wild magic’ of sorts acting upon him. His son seemed guilty at this, though Loki had assured him he could fix the scar easily if he so desired, and came a lot easier to his imprisonment–acting for all his worth like one of the spoilt palace dogs after a scolding, rather than a great wolf he was. Frigga had said something about the bond between mother and son being the greatest motivation at all, but Loki had merely brushed the comment off in light of the fact he was twenty years old and still Frigga would not step in when Odin would chain the blame for Thor’s mistakes onto Loki's already taxed reputation.

Loki keeps the scar Fenrir gave him because it covers his delicate features and draws unwanted attention away from the sharp cut of his cheekbones, such features not considered beautiful on a male of Asgard– rather to be viewed as the beauty of a maiden and did Loki no favours in relation to his lack of 'manly' skills. On the other hand, it is not as an usual to see an Asgardian with scars, many battles are fought with fantastic creatures who maim with magic, whose wounds refuse to let heal; however, he still gets some attention from it, teasing that if Loki had been a warrior Fenrir would never have even come close to hurting him. That Fenrir would be dead. It made Loki’s mouth turn dry and his spine ache to imagine his son dead, slain, to be another victim of Asgard’s cruelty to those who did not perfectly fit its golden mold.

It may not have been a mark won in fierce battle but it is a mark nonetheless and Loki enjoys the comfort it allows–the brief feeling of being part of something, a warrior, a man of Asgard; and he ignores Sif’s snide remarks and Thor’s suppressed laughter at Loki being unable to control his own son.

Loki’s favourite part is when he fades away all the glamour late at night when his magic becomes sparse, when his dark hair spills over his shoulder and his skin has the life sucked from it, is that the scar remains - etched into his face. Something profoundly not him.

Tony is thirty-four years old when Thor touches down on the roof of Stark tower, a slim, golden haired man behind him sporting a scar across his face and a faint golden touch to his skin. The green, intelligent eyes that snap to Tony’s face do not seem to match the rest of the man’s outwardly appearance as they detail over Tony’s form in an oddly catogorising matter. Tony feels like he’s being sized up, yet at the same time is aware of the man’s friendly and open posture, his apparent lack of aggression. He is merely cool.

Thor smiles.

"Man of Iron! It is good to see you again!" Thor comes forwards and slaps a hand on Tony’s back, jarring the mortal slightly and barely giving him time to recover as the enthusiastic god beckons forth the man who accompanies him "This is Loki, my brother. He has joined me on this fine meeting to see the beauty of Misgard!"

Loki seems unamused by his brothers words and merely glances at Tony once more, green eyes flitting to the cityscape surrounding them on their vantage point. He seems hardly phased by the scale of things, though if Thor’s tales of Asgard are to be of any truth at all, Tony supposes these building would be hardly imposing at all to one used to such splendor. He smiles at the strange God but gains no such courtesy back. Thor shoots Tony what appears to be an apologetic look and launches into speech once more, following Tony back into the warmth of the Tower, his brother trailing behind him, eyes narrowed and wary.

As Thor greets the rest of the Avengers his brother hangs back, nodding when he is introduced but doing nothing more. Not a word has escaped his lips so far and Tony is far too interested to keep his eyes off the strange man; something about him was off, but Tony couldn't quite identify it and was increasingly aware of the frequency in which Loki caught his wandering eyes with a raised eyebrow.

Tony can’t look away and it is the God who breaks eye contact every time, hair swinging with indignation.

###### 

He is still thirty-four seven hours later when he leaves his bed to grab a drink from the kitchen. He can’t sleep, not with the buzz of alcohol under his skin, not with the feeling of green eyes watching him, staring at him, taking in every single little detail they could possibly–

Tony turns around, hand steadying himself on the counter and faces towards the stranger lounging at his breakfast bar. He seems unthreatening: a slumped figure with pale white hands and dark hair falling over his face, obscuring it from view. Tony watches as the slender fingers of the man run through the locks of strangely long, black hair, tugging but not quite pulling.

"Who are you?" _and why didn’t Jarvis tell me there was an intruder?_

"Oh, you know…" The voice is gentle but deep, far from a rumble but satisfyingly male in an oddly pleasing way. His hand gestures as if to say ‘here and there’ but the figure does not elaborate, at least, until he lifts his head up from his other hand.

It’s undoubtedly Loki’s scar, though it looks worse, much worse, when thrown against such pale skin and his eyes are the same piercings emerald - only they are right now, fitted in the right face, at home in paper-white skin and thick, dark hair. A smile dances across the God’s new features but doesn’t last long as Tony fails to respond. His head drops once more and Tony sees his hand press against his forehead and watches a slight tremble travel down the lower arm, meeting with the hard granite of the counter.

"Why?" Loki doesn’t move again, keeping his face pressed into his hand.

"It’s exhausting, keeping the glamour up: full body skin change, constant, minute changes as the skin sheds and a hair grows. I…I am very tired. I am afraid I must strip the change every night to prevent a comatose state occurring. Regrettable, but necessary." Loki’s voice drags lower still near the end and Tony is even more acutely aware of the heavy slant of the God’s delicate shoulders and the way his hair seems to fall lankly across his marked face. Very tired indeed.

Tony reaches for the whiskey under the bar.

"Why do you need the glamour? Isn’t easier to just go without?" Loki’s eyes snap back up, hair flipping back down his back. A cruel smile cuts across his face and Tony tries to ignore it by pouring himself a drink. At a glance at the fatigued God, he pours Loki one too, pushing it across the counter.

"It is… easier, if I look like one of them. I am…" Loki’s eyes flick sideways as he struggles to find a work, finger absentmindedly playing with the class caged under his hand.

"Unique?" Tony offers.

Loki’s hand stills.

"…a freak, I think they called me." He takes a sip from his glass "No matter. As long as I uphold my appearance it is of no consequence. Asgard continues as usual, my unsightly form is a mere memory. It is more pleasant like this." He frowns to himself thoughtfully, and takes another sip from his glass. Tony feels like he’s missing something.

"So... on Asgard you are teased? For looking different?" the God looks indignant and ready to protest when Tony carries on "Sounds like a bunch of wankers to me. You don't have to listen to them mate, you're fine the way you are - you're damn well gorgeous" _shut up, Tony_ "Far from unsightly. I mean I... don't know where I'm going with this. But you're not ugly, you don't need to... hide. Here you're fine, you're fine on Asgard too. I just." Tony stutters to an end and feels his cheeks warm up - he is not blushing. Not at all. He just didn't see this conversation coming, that's all, and it's hot in here. Really hot. Tony pulls at the collar of his shirt.

Loki's eyes are wide and he seems quite genuinely surprised, the wickedly painful smile wiped clean from his pale face. He opens his mouth then closes it again , seemingly at loss of things to say. He looks affrontedly down at his drink instead, careful fingers sliding round the glass edges, his thoughtful face back in full force.

Silence.

"You're a strange one, Tony Stark."

When Loki leaves the next morning in the company of Thor his skin is a soft gold and his hair a startling silver blonde; but the jutting scar is gone from his face and he smiles, briefly, freely, at Tony before the Bifrost swallows him up and takes him from Misgard.

Tony can only hope.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for any spelling errors and such - it's been through a beta for once so it should be okay but I did edit a little more on top.
> 
> Also feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://norsed.tumblr.com)  
> I follow back other fandom blogs - i'm usually multi fandom but the Thor 2 trailer happened and to say I got carried away is a bit of an understatement aha ^-^


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